


you're not my type (but I like you a-latte).

by kirargent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wells folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry, but ‘confrontational asshole’ isn’t really my type.”</p><p>The guy shrugs. “And I don’t make a habit of dating guys who douse me in hot coffee and then threaten to sue me, but I was thinking of making an exception.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're not my type (but I like you a-latte).

Wells stands in the center of the coffeehouse, hot, milky coffee dripping down his dress shirt as he meets the disbelieving glare of the other unfortunate party involved in this mishap, and he thinks:  _This is all Raven’s fault_.

If she hadn’t come stumbling home at 2:32am with bruised knuckles, a split lip, and liquor on her breath, Wells wouldn’t have been so dazed this morning. If he hadn’t been so out of sorts, he would’ve smiled at Harper behind the counter like normal, grabbed his coffee, and nodded at the messy-haired professor who always comes in for a latte at 6:48 exactly, like he always does, instead of breaking pattern and crashing into the guy instead.

The man lifts his arms slowly, examining the drippy streaks of caramel-gold that now adorn his crisp white shirt.  _Oh, hell_ , Wells thinks.

“Crap,” he says eloquently.  _Great going, Jaha. Very intelligent_. “Crap, man. I’m so sorry.”

The man blows out a breath, dropping his arms. "Yeah, ‘crap’ about sums it up.” He shakes his head. “The morning I’m running late, too.” He shifts his weight, looking trapped. “Look, uh. I don’t know if I barged into you or if you walked into me, but I’ve got a class in eight minutes and I need to find a shirt. I’m here every morning if you want compensation for that coffee, but...” He looks apologetic. Apologetic, and very stressed. Wells feels like a colossal asshat.

“No, of course! Go ahead. Uh, good luck finding a shirt.”

With the flash of a strained smile, the man goes.

Wells slinks back to the counter, tail between legs, and orders another coffee before he leaves.

He upgrades to a Venti.

 

* * *

  

“I just barreled into him like a big—” Wells waves his hands, considering the idea that he’s maybe had too much caffeine today “—a big, clumsy elephant.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

Wells sighs, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not like I’ve ever talked to the guy, but—I don’t know, I guess I figured if I ever did, I’d be asking him out, not...”

“Elephant-ing into him?” Clarke offers.

Wells gives her a flat, unamused smile. “Yeah. That.”

“Whatever, Wells. He’s just some cute guy from a coffee shop.”

Wells picks at the crust of his sandwich. He picks it up, takes a bite instead of saying:  _Yeah, a cute guy who, according to Harper, teaches mythology at the community college. Have I thought about what smart babies we’d have even though I’ve never spoken to him and it’s not biologically possible? Maybe. Have I spent too much time thinking about how he’s got this tiny little waist and these muscly freaking arms and—_

“Well, look. Raven’s dragging me back to TonDC tonight because the girl she beat up last night?”

Wells shakes his head in exasperation. “What about her?”

Clarke’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Apparently she’s a real looker. Raven’s hoping she’s a regular, wants to get her number.”

Wells snorts. “Sounds like Raven.”

Clarke nods. “Anyway, you should come. Get out of the house for a change. Meet some people instead of studying all day every day.”

“Clarke, I’m taking the bar—”

“Next month, I know.” She throws a wadded up napkin across the table at him. “And you’re gonna pass it, and you’re gonna be a great lawyer. But  _tonight_  you’re gonna come out with us, and we’re gonna find you someone to take your mind off of Cute Coffee Shop Guy.”

Wells grunts noncommittally. “Is there any point arguing with you?”

Clarke beams. “None at all. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

 

* * *

 

“Calm down,” Wells says evenly.

Raven drives her elbow back into his gut; he exhales heavily, but tightens his arms around her middle.

“All right,” he says, lifting her feet from the ground and setting her down a few feet away.

“She called my necklace a piece of crap!” Raven says indignantly.

“It is a piece of crap, Raven,” Clarke says calmly.

“Her face is a piece of crap!” Raven shouts. “Finn made this for me before we broke up!” She takes a leap forward; Clarke lunges to catch her flailing arms, holding her back.

“Keep your psycho friend under control,” someone says.

"I’ve got her,” Clarke says, gripping Raven’s shoulders.

Wells nods, turning toward the voice. The dim lighting in the bar makes shadows slant at a different angle on his cheeks, but Wells recognizes the speaker.  _Fantastic_ , he thinks.

The man’s eyebrows lower slowly. “Don’t I know you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Wells says, but he can see in the man’s face that he’s already put it together.

“Yeah, I do,” he continues. “You’re the guy that ruined my shirt and made me late for work this morning.”

“It was an accident,” Wells says. He keeps his voice calm, ignoring the sliver of anger under his skin. He’s done nothing to deserve this rudeness.

“Was it an accident when your friend over there smashed in my sister’s nose?” the man prods.

“I’m very sorry about that,” Wells assures him.

The guy shakes his head. “Sure you are. You and your crazy friends just—stay away from us, all right?”

Fresh annoyance flares in Wells’s chest. “Yeah, how about you do the same? You might wanna get a leash for that sister of yours.”

The man’s jaw tightens. His voice is low when he says: “What did you just say about my sister?”

“I said,” Wells tells him, taking a step into the few feet of space that separate them, "that you might want to get a leash for your sister, since she’s the one who started the fight. That clear enough for you?”

“Yeah, it is,” the guy says. He takes a step forward to meet Wells. “It’s clear to me that if you say one more word about her, you’re going to leave here tonight with a lot worse than a busted lip.”

Wells tips his head to the side slowly. He scans this guy’s round eyes, the faint freckles spilled across the bridge of his nose. With a tug of satisfaction in his gut, he notes that he’s a fraction taller than Cute Asshole Professor here.

“No,” he says slowly, “I’m not. You know why? Because if you put one finger on me or my friends, I’ll have you  _and_  your out-of-control sister behind bars so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

The man is silent, but looks unswayed.

Wells glances beyond his man’s broad shoulders to the girl clutching her nose behind him. She looks angry, and really drunk, and really young. He lifts an eyebrow. “How old did you say she was, again?”

The man’s jaw tightens. He narrows his eyes. Then, sighing, he visibly loosens his tense shoulders and drops his eyes closed. “Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “Yeah, all right.”

He opens his eyes again; they flick up and down Wells’s frame, a little narrowed with curiosity. A slow smirk cracks his solemn expression.

Wells watches him warily.

“How about you buy me a drink, and we’ll call it even—the shirt, the fight: all of it.” His grin is confident; his posture is relaxed and cocky, a far cry from the angry stance of moments ago.

Wells blinks. He feels his lips part. “I,” he says. “What?”

The guy’s grin grows, splitting to show white teeth. “Come on. I’ve seen you checking me out.” Wells says nothing. “Look, I’m an adjunct on a community college salary; I’m willing to forgive a lot for a free beer.”

Wells folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry, but ‘confrontational asshole’ isn’t really my type.”

The guy shrugs. “And I don’t make a habit of dating guys who douse me in hot coffee and then threaten to sue me, but I was thinking of making an exception.”

Wells narrows his eyes. The guy raises his eyebrows, smile unwavering. He sticks out a hand.

“Bellamy,” he says. “And you are?”

Wells accepts the offered hand. It’s big. Warm, too. Strong grip.  _Oh, I’m fucked_ , Wells thinks. “Wells,” he says grudgingly.

Bellamy’s grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Wells.”

“Hmm,” Wells says, unconvinced. Bellamy chuckles. One of his big hands rises to rest, feather-light, almost uncertain, on Wells’s shoulder, guiding him in the direction of the bar.

Wells glances back at Raven, who’s alternately wrestling to free herself from Clarke’s restraining grip and tossing flirtatious smiles at Bellamy’s sister.  _This is all Raven's fault_ , Wells thinks again.

Bellamy pulls out a barstool for him with a wink. Wells snorts at the sudden, uncharacteristically chivalrous behavior.

 _And I probably owe her a damn thank-you card_.

**Author's Note:**

> also posted [on tumblr](http://kirargent.tumblr.com/post/114531757036/youre-not-my-type-but-i-like-you-a-latte)


End file.
